The One to Keep
by keegan-cupcaked
Summary: Each year, we make a resolution and a promise to ourselves that, this year, this will be the one to keep. Sara Sidle, New Year's Resolution 2002: Don't get into bad relationships. GSR.
1. Gil Grissom, NYR 1999

A/N: A collaborative effort by Keegan Elizabeth and sara-cupcaked.

Disclaimer: We claim no ownership of CSI and its characters.

* * *

Resolutions are made at the end of the year to usher in the beginning of a New Year. Like rules, resolutions are made to ensure everything runs smoothly and is kept in order. But not unlike rules, resolutions are often broken.

For better or for worse, only time will tell.

--

_Gil Grissom, New Year's Resolution 1999._

_Don't get attached._

--

He holds the door open for an exiting customer before he enters the coffee shop, stepping out of the chilly air and into the warm shop. The Jitter Bug. Very appropriately named since he's already getting a slight caffeine buzz from the aroma itself. It's a local favorite (according to Karl, the undergrad student assigned to assist him for the day) and taking in the number of people already standing in line, it's a very good thing it's located only half a block from the building he will be lecturing in exactly, he glances at his watch, forty-five minutes.

Making his way to the end of the line, he studies the menu briefly before he begins to take in his surroundings. The place is clean and well lit. Medium to large canvases hang on the light mocha brown walls, ranging from dark abstracts to Impressionistic landscapes, painted by local artists hoping to sell their work and make it big. The music's low and has a nice indie vibe.

The clientele of the place is also surprisingly eclectic.

College kids sit huddled together, pouring over mountains of open books, while a couple of them sit alone with their empty cups of java before them, pecking away on their laptops and wearing a look of harried frenzy. To his right, there are two women in their late-thirties who look as if they belong more on Wall Street or Madison Avenue than they do here. Finally, in the back corner, a group of teens dressed in black and with multiple piercings take up a table to themselves, slouching and discussing their angst-filled lives.

His eyes slowly drift back before finally resting on the woman in front of him.

As a CSI and scientist, he documents her dark hair, which is pulled into a ponytail, her height, her posture, and the color of her nails—a pale, pale pink. Carnation pink, he thinks to himself.

"A medium café mocha, extra whip."

The sound of her voice draws him from his thoughts. Her voice is deep; he catalogs that as well.

"Please," she adds, as she hands the young man with messy blond hair her money. He takes it then smiles and she walks to the far side of the shop, never turning around.

"Sir?"

"One medium coffee, black," he answers. "Thanks."

By the time he finishes paying, she is still at the 'to go' counter, waiting.

He walks over to stand beside her. Her foot is tapping a soft beat on the tiled floor, and he wonders briefly where she needs to be. Tilting his wrist slightly, he checks his watch to make sure he won't be late for his lecture.

When he looks up, his eyes meet brown and she smiles in understanding. He returns it automatically.

"Did you know chocolate can have a significant influence on mood, generally leading to an increase in pleasant feelings and a reduction in tension?" he asks in place of 'hello', referring to her choice of flavoring in her coffee.

For a moment she looks at a loss, and before she can reply, her order is up—a takeaway cup with a foamy top, sprinkled with a dash of cocoa powder and tiny chocolate shavings.

Flashing him a quick smile, she grabs her coffee and makes her way through the crowd, leaving the faint scent of chocolate in her wake.

He watches her leave with a sigh of… what? He's not even sure and before he can analyze—or choose to avoid analyzing—he hears his order being called.

Nodding his thanks, he grabs the warm paper cup, and with his head bent slightly, he pushes his way forward. In his mind, he completes his analysis of the woman who left moments before: a young female, unusually tall with deep brown eyes and who has a tiny gap between her front teeth.

An adorable, tiny gap.

"HEY! Watch it! You're going to burn someone," a voice of annoyed anger says, "or get burned."

He apologizes quickly and pays careful attention as he exits the building, the brilliant winter sunlight nearly blinding him as the wind whips around him.

_Or get burned._

He knows all too well what that feels like. His mind flashes briefly to Carol, the arguments, the cheating (her, not him), and the very messy, drawn-out breakup.

He sighs and shakes his head as to clear it completely of all thoughts pertaining to the female gender, past and present, as he makes his way to the lecture hall.

--

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is my privilege today to introduce to you an esteemed colleague in the field and a good friend of mine, Dr. Gil Grissom. He works at the Las Vegas Crime Lab as a criminologist and forensic entomologist…"

The mandatory applause fills the large auditorium as he makes his way to the podium and shakes his friend's hand. He places his notes and coffee cup on the stand, before adjusting and turning on the microphone clipped to his tie. In his mind, he quickly goes through the rules for lecturing that he learned so many years ago in his _Fundamentals of Speech_ college class: don't slouch or place your elbows on the podium, don't put your hands in your pockets or fidget, don't read directly from your notes.

"Hello and good afternoon," he says, picking up the clicker to the projector and pointing to the first slide of his presentation. "The lecture today is entitled 'The Insect Structure and Function of the Blowfly and its Larvae'."

"Blowflies, also called carrion-flies or bottle flies, are members of the_ Calliphoridae_ family of flies. The adults are known for being shiny with metallic coloring, often with blue, green, or black bodies, and are between 10 to 12 millimeter in length."

Once he completes his brief introduction and overview of the blowfly and its characteristics, he moves on to the development of the insect.

"Most species, or at least those studied thus far, are anautogenous. This means the gravid female requires a substantial amount of protein to develop mature eggs within her ovaries…"

He remembers another rule of lecturing. The most important one: make eye contact.

His eyes scan the crowd of people before him slowly, taking in all the eager faces of San Francisco's finest, stopping in various sections for several seconds before glancing back at the projection screen and his notes. Several minutes pass before his gaze lands on a single bowed head in the middle row near the front. He is about to move on when the woman looks up.

He pauses for a fraction of a second, his mind reeling at seeing her again. He grabs the coffee that has been sitting untouched since he began, to stall for a moment, and he takes a sip of the now lukewarm liquid. His eyes still hold hers and he sees a flicker of recognition in her eyes. He sets the coffee down, glances at his notes to refocus his mind, and resumes speaking as though nothing had happened.

"The eggs are yellowish or white in color and are laid in clumps that resemble miniature rice balls. Typically, the female has 150-200 eggs per batch, and during the course of her lifetime, she will lay around 2,000 eggs."

For the next two hours, he talks, clicking through the slides with methodical deftness and with his passion and love for the subject shining through easily. And though his mind wanders to the brunette from time to time, he spends the rest of the lecture effectively avoiding the section in which she sits.

--

"Dr. Grissom."

He straightens up from his papers, expecting to see the blonde from the third row for the fifth time.

It's not her but the brunette who takes chocolate in her coffee, the one who paints her nails carnation pink and possesses a cute gap to match.

"Hi," she says, after a moment, and gives him a half smile. She adds, gesturing to the cup he's about to toss in the trash can, "We met earlier at the coffee shop."

"Yes, I remember." He smiles professionally, his cool façade replacing the man he was at the coffee house.

"I'm Sara Sidle, CSI from the San Francisco Crime Lab."

Her hair is still tied away from her pale complexion in a simple ponytail; she speaks confidently with a lilt, her voice as deep as he remembered.

"It's a pleasure to officially meet," he says, extending a hand automatically and she takes it.

"I was wondering if you wouldn't mind answering a few questions?" she asks then realizes he might be wondering why she hadn't asked earlier so she explains, "I didn't want to monopolize the entire question and answer session."

Again, another cute half smile.

"Sure," he says and nods.

After her first few questions, ranging from the first case to have presented an entomological timeline at court to the blowfly's natural habitat, they move to the seats nearest the stage to sit down. The auditorium is empty save the two of them.

With each passing question, he cannot help but take in her sharp mind and curious eyes, marveling at her intellect.

"… first known association of the term 'blow' with flies appears in Shakespeare's plays, his _Love's Labour's Lost_, _The Tempest_, and _Antony and Cleopatra_," he finishes saying when he hears a door being opened and sees a janitor walk in.

They look at each other before glancing down at their watches, calculating that they'd been talking for over thirty minutes, and then back into each other's eyes.

She rises from her chair, and he does too. They stand facing each other, silence reigns except for the slight swooshing noise of sweeping coming from the back of the auditorium.

"The Institute of Food Research," she says suddenly, playing with her ponytail.

"Excuse me?"

"The institute that funded the research on chocolate. Dr. Peter Rodgers was the man you quoted."

He stares at her and she smiles, almost shyly.

"You are well read, Miss Sidle," he remarks, thoroughly impressed.

"Sara," she says and beams.

A few seconds pass before he breaks the silence. "Do you have any more questions?" he asks, feeling that he doesn't want her to go just yet.

She stares to the right, off in empty space, for a moment, considering. Her eyes shift back to his, brown meeting blue, and she tucks an errant strand that had fallen from her ponytail back behind her ear. "I, uh, believe you answered everything. At least all the questions that I can think of at the moment."

He doesn't know if it's just him but he wants to believe that he detects a hint of regret in her voice.

Looking down at the folder brimming with his notes that he holds, he opens it to look for a blank sheet of paper. He finds one and pulls it out. "Would you like to exchange emails?" he asks. "So in case you had future questions…"

"About blowflies and their larvae?" She gives him a half smile, half smirk.

"Or any other insect," he says, his lips curving upward as well.

"I would like that."

He writes his information down quickly and gives the paper to her.

She tears it in half, writes down her email address, and hands it back. "Thanks for answering all my questions," she says and then holds up the slip of paper bearing his contact info, "and for this."

He nods slightly. "You're welcome."

She stares at him a second longer, looking like she wants to say something else, but instead she murmurs a soft goodbye and walks away.

He stares after her, watching her retreating form, and his heart jolts painfully for the first time that day.

His first slip.

--

He pulls at the last pieces of paper of his San Francisco lecture from four months ago and places them into the paper bin, before turning his attention to his cluttered desk.

With a sigh, he begins the laborious task of sorting through junk mail and bills and old papers when his computer emits a short, electronic ping. He moves his mouse slightly, and the black screen fades back to his opened email account.

In his inbox lies one new email.

From Sara Sidle.

His curiosity piqued, he abandons the mess and opens the message, feeling a little too excited.

She starts off by apologizing for not emailing earlier, and writes about the new CSI on her team, inquires about the weather at his end (as it is freezing down at the Bay), and nestled between two long and elaborate questions is a line that makes him reread thrice.

_My supervisor had a case yesterday – DB down by the beach, covered with second instar maggots. He joked about establishing an entomological timeline, but it wasn't necessary as the coroner could establish an accurate TOD, but I couldn't help but think of you. _

It doesn't mean anything, he tells himself, but as he finishes reading her email, he finds he can't keep a smile from forming.

And from the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the note card he had thumbtacked to his corkboard at the beginning of the year. He stares at his computer screen again, Sara's email still displayed, then at the card once more, realizing he has just broken it.

_Don't get attached.

* * *

_A/N2: We had a lot of fun writing this first chapter, so please consider leaving a review to let us know how we did and what you thought. Thanks, and we wish everyone a happy (and safe) New Year's Eve. For those making a New Year's Resolution, good luck in keeping it!


	2. Sara Sidle, NYR 2002

A/N: Thanks for the feedback on the first part, and we hope you enjoy this chapter.

Disclaimer: See first chapter.

* * *

_Sara Sidle, New Year's Resolution 2002._

_Don't get into bad relationships._

--

Walking down the Strip, she inhales deeply, feeling the cool and slightly sharp air fill her lungs. Fresh air tinged with exhaust fumes and, strangely, caramel popcorn, an unusual combination that somehow works. Swirls of clouds gather over her head, big grayish ones that offset the gold and peach that color the sky from the setting sun.

She marvels the view while drawing another deep breath, wondering if the sky is this beautiful every other day or if its beauty lies in it being the start of a brand new year; pure and untouched like freshly fallen snow.

"Care to share?" His voice comes out next to her, startling her from her daydream.

"Hmm?" she asks, reluctantly drawing her eyes from the sky to look at him.

"You look preoccupied."

"Oh," she replies before pointing up to the sky, because some things don't need words.

"It's pretty," he finally says after a long pause, and she frowns to herself.

_Pretty._

'Pretty' is an appropriate word for daffodils or blue china plates, but for _this_? This view cannot even be described as gorgeous, breathtaking, wondrous, sublime — it is so much more than just that.

Such a shallow word, she thinks to herself as he takes her hand in his, one lacking substance and depth. The smell of his cologne is fresh, stronger than usual, and it draws her mind back to the present once more.

"Pretty?" she mimics, hoping to draw something deeper out of him, her eyes seeking the sky subconsciously, wondering if they're seeing the same thing. Poets write sonnets about night skies just like this.

"Didn't I just say that?" he replies teasingly.

She gives him a weak smile in return as they walk wordlessly down the Strip, the strains of music gone. There's nothing truly wrong with describing the sky with that adjective, and she may just be feeling petty but it doesn't feel _right_ to her.

Pushing it out from her mind, she speaks, "Hank, do you consider this a date?"

He gives her a half shrug. "Why not?"

"Just wondering," she says, and frowns to herself once more, thinking about the resolution she scrawled down before the clock turned twelve, just so she could say she wrote one.

They are walking down the Strip, hand in hand; the air is fresh, the natural beauty of Vegas surrounds them and they are alone.

She looks up again, and the sky has darkened.

Everything has the potential to be perfect, she thinks to herself, but somehow… it's not.

--

Hank wears cologne, making him smell fresh and woodsy and good to her nose. It's refreshing to smell something other than decomp, gunpowder residue, or print powder on a man.

"You smell nice," she tells him casually one evening, and he smiles.

The next day he brings her a present, a box wrapped in shiny red wrapper. A New Year's present, he tells her as she cautiously unwraps the box, even though it's already two weeks past the newest year.

It is a blue box with the word _Angel_ printed on it. She takes out the artsy bottle from the box, examining its sharp points, stylized star-shaped body and blue tint. He reaches over and sprays some on her; the strong scent of vanilla, musk and chocolate fills her senses.

"_Angel_ perfume for my angel," he says with a grin, making her laugh and cringe at the same time.

She hates terms of endearments such as angel, baby, sweetheart and any of its variations, but decides to play along anyway. "Thank you, baby," she says with a slight smirk.

She wears the perfume only on dates, but once she forgets and spritzes some on before heading to work. The entire day through Grissom is visibly displeased but she doesn't know if it's the perfume or the fact he is reminded she's going out with someone.

She doesn't ask.

--

Before leaving Elaine Alcott's home, she can't help but notice the bottle of women's fragrance sitting on her desk.

"My boyfriend gave that to me for my birthday," she explains, catching Sara's eye. "He believes that scent is tied the closest to memory."

When she gets home, she empties the bottle of perfume over the pictures of them in a steel trashcan on her balcony before lighting it up, watching her colored memories go up in flames.

Feeling bold, she throws in the resolution as well. And I thought it was going so well, she says to herself, but then again, she's not surprised.

She stands there in the silence, watching the flames curl around the note card she had written her resolution on, turning it quickly into ash.

Fire cleanses; fire wipes the slate clean.

Her first and only resolution of the year, broken.

The sickly sweet odor of _Angel_ fills her mind and clouds her eyes as she watches it burn. She's not surprised it came down to this; she's more surprised she didn't see it coming.

--

For the tenth time, she wonders to herself why murders are always discovered near the end of their shift as she snaps pictures of the male victim in the alleyway. It has been something she's been meaning to find out, and Grissom would probably know the answer.

Grissom, the man she's currently avoiding eye contact with.

After hearing about her breakup, Warrick offered her a giant hug, which she accepted gratefully, and Nick, together with Greg, offered to beat Hank up for her. She declined with a smirk and a shake of her head, deeply touched.

"Just remind me to murder Catherine later," she told them.

She wasn't surprised when Grissom failed to say anything, or to even acknowledge her breakup, something she was thankful for. What surprised her though was when he assigned them to the same case, a dead male down at Freemont Street, seemingly oblivious to the subtle strain of their relationship.

Relaxing her arms to drop the camera, she takes a moment to collect her thoughts. Hank wasn't perfect, but she did care about him, about _them_, and no matter how much she tried to suppress her emotions, it still hurt.

It hurts more than she cares to admit, which in turn makes her angry.

Instinctively, she lifts her eyes to the sky, hoping to lose herself for a couple of seconds, to forget everything for just a heartbeat. She is not disappointed when golden clouds stain the watery sky, a teacup of a morning.

She stands there, camera dangling loosely from her neck, absorbing the simple beauty of a sunrise with a small smile. For now, she can live in the moment and just _be_.

"Everything has its beauty," his voice comes softly beside her, and she turns to see him staring at the sky, "but not everyone sees it."

As he murmurs the last four words, she can feel his gaze on her, his blue eyes smothering, and she stills.

She knows, by the way he is looking at her, that he is not talking about the sky.

In her mind, a rush of images flash before her eyes, like a disjointed slideshow. Grissom at the coffee shop, seeing Grissom for the first time in Vegas, "tape me up", Kaye Shelton's case, baseball and ice rinks, Phillip Gerard outing Hank to Grissom—

Then the pictures change to Hank outside the morgue, dinners with Hank, the walk on the Strip, burning her resolution and then, finally, back to Grissom's last words spoken.

_Don't get into bad relationships._

She didn't love Hank, but she did care for him, and they shared _something_. It might not be one based on love or trust, but it was a relationship nonetheless. Fun but messy and broken; it was still a relationship.

Then where does it leave Grissom and her? It would be a stretch to call it a relationship; it'll be more apt to call it an interaction. But what about all those looks he gives her, all that tension, all those double entendres? It's not like trying to finish a puzzle with missing pieces, but more like trying to finish one with its final piece in sight but just out of reach.

If her relationship with Hank was _bad_, then what does it say about her 'relationship' with Grissom?

She turns quickly and meets his eyes, and the intensity of them makes her breath catch. She doesn't turn away, and thinks aloud instead. "The word 'bad' has many different synonyms, right?"

His eyes widen in a silent question, and she recites the synonyms under her breath, to his confusion.

_Defective, inadequate, poor, inferior, substandard, deficient._

"Deficient," she whispers, "is just another way to describe bad, right?"

He doesn't answer; he doesn't need to.

She turns away and sighs, feeling drained. The sun has broken completely free of the horizon, bathing the area in weak sunlight.

Before she can help herself, the words spill out almost unconsciously. "The truth doesn't always bring closure, does it?"

He stops cold in his tracks, several feet from her. "No," he says, not looking back. "No, it doesn't."

She watches him walk to the other side of the alleyway, never feeling so cold in her life even as the sun sears her skin.

* * *

A/N2: _Angel_ perfume made by Thierry Mugler, and the quote Grissom says is by Confucius.


End file.
